The winds hits
On the hill
Slipping my feet
Cutting my face
In my hands
Saw and shears
It is time
For more trimming.
Cankers, rots
Branches broken
By fecund spurs
A tumor
A spot for feeding
It all
Has to go.
What do I think
While my shoulders ache?
I think about people
Politics
Ancient video games
My wife
My last days
In the sun.
Every season
Is a circle
Some hate this
And spend their lives
Running out of the loop.
I've been in a circle
For a while.
It grows larger
Every year.
How I feel about it
Changes
From season to season.
We are in the dying times
But we'll soon be elsewhere.
There's nothing left to say
There is plenty left to do.
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